


Change Anything

by keeleyofnine



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 19:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeleyofnine/pseuds/keeleyofnine
Summary: Boris and Theo finally face the truth of their relationship.





	Change Anything

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic...And Here We Go!
> 
> So, it's been a while since I posted this and I have over 1000 views. I never thought I would have that many. Thanks to everyone who has read my story! Its given me the courage to continue writing!

Change Anything

I heard it wafting distantly down the hall, the same voice that had pulled me back to earth many times. As the sound got closer – and now it was joined with the sound of joyful yapping and Popchik’s toenails tapping on the hardwood – I rolled over in bed and faced the wall. I hadn’t heard from Boris in months, but here he was dropping in unannounced, probably wanting to drink and get stoned and have a convenient place to crash. At the thought of alcohol and drugs my stomach began to heave, and I took several deep breaths to get it under control. He’s out of luck this time, I thought bitterly, as only three days before I had scoured my apartment for alcohol and drugs of any kind and flushed it all down the toilet. I gripped the side of the mattress tightly as he nonchalantly threw open the door.

“Potter! Wake up! Is me!” I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, pretending that if I didn’t look at him, he would disappear. “What! Is only Popchik happy to see me?” I sighed, opening my eyes and rolling over to face him. I had been friends with Boris long enough to know that he never disappeared when he wanted something.

“What are you doing here, Boris?” I croaked, throat still sore from a morning hanging over the toilet. I asked out of politeness, not because I really cared.

“Am here to see Popchik!” he hesitated “and you. You look like shit Potter.”

“Fuck you” I grumbled. On my frequent trips to the bathroom to vomit I hadn’t bothered to look at my reflection, but I could imagine the sight of myself. Pale gray skin, black ringed eyes hollow and glassy, greasy hair plastered to my forehead. I knew because I’d seen myself before, on the numerous other occasions when I had tried to sober up. Time and again I had hunkered down in Pippa’s empty room (because it had an adjoining bathroom) determined to kick my casual, social drinking habit. I had given up the pills right after Antwerp, deciding I needed a clear head with which to conduct the business of buying back all the fake furniture I had sold at Hobart & Blackwell. But everywhere I went there were drinks thrust into my hand, bottles in the multitude of hotel mini bars where I stayed, waking up in different cities not knowing where-or who-I was. What had once been a relief from the anxiety I still felt, or a social lubricant for the delicate situations in which I found myself with past customers, had become the only way I could sleep, the only thing that cured my morning headaches and stilled my trembling hands.

I had thought of Boris so many times during my failed attempts to dry out, remembering his words in Antwerp-I am alcoholic, damage done, drunk till I die. Maybe I was, too. Maybe my life of parties and cocktails and lonely bottles of Stoli alone on my apartment floor was my reality-and the days like today where I tortured myself with stone cold sobriety-were only a nightmare.

“Potter, are you awake?” Playfully he reached out and slapped my cheek, which brought me out of my reverie, and I began to wonder for the first time how Boris had gotten in, and how he had known to come. I had only moved to the apartment a month before, after Mr. De Frees had passed away and Mrs. De Frees had started inhabiting a room down the hall. Wanting to give Hobie and Moira their space, I had leased the first apartment I could find that accepted cash and let me pay a year in advance. But I couldn’t recall speaking to Boris during that time, let alone giving him my address.

“How did you find me Boris?” I asked with one eye open, “How did you get in?”

“You invited me, Potter! Last week on telephone, remember? Is my birthday, Boris! Come celebrate! And now here I am, letting myself in with the hidden key! And happy birthday, Potter! Are we having fun yet?” he chuckled. When I stared blankly back at him, he hung his head, unruly curls tumbling around his face. “Jesus, Potter. You really are a black-out drunk.”

He was right, of course. There was so much of my life I simply couldn’t recall. Like Boris I was covered in scars, but unlike Boris I could not laughingly tell the story of each one. I was reasonably sure that the cut marks on my kneecaps had to do with one too many nights on the bathroom tile praying to the Porcelain God (hands clutching the bowl, please God if you get me through this I will never drink again) but I had no idea why there was a puckered red mark above my eye, or a 3 inch gash on the inside of my palm. The old evidence of torn knuckles I could explain, because it matched the jagged scar on Boris’ lip. A tear almost escaped as I thought of him pressing my bloodied hand to his face. Blood of my blood, he had called me. But right now, I couldn’t stand the sight of him. I couldn’t stand to think about those drunken nights in the freezing wasteland of the Nevada desert, because I knew they were another reason that I drank, maybe the most important reason. I was still trying to keep those Vegas nights alive, as if somehow in my stupor I could find myself back there, shivering on the cold dirt of the abandoned playground, him smoking beside me, staring up at the moon. His hand in mine, and Popchik snuggled between our dirty feet. But I never could get back, and the only thing I saw now in my drunkenness was his face in the doorway of his flat in Antwerp, letting me walk away.

“Fuck you Boris!” I spat, “We never talked on the phone. Hobie must have called you.”

“No Potter. Was you. Many great talks we have shared that you will never recall.” The pain on his face as he spoke was unbearable and I scrunched my eyes shut, unable to hold back the tears this time. “Fuck you” I said again, because what else could I say.

Suddenly the anger overwhelmed me, burning in my stomach, and the tears that fell from my bloodshot eyes were hot and frustrated and petulant.

“It’s all your fault Boris, you asshole! You were the worst thing that could have happened to me in Vegas! Feeding me beer for supper and washing it down with vodka! You and your fucking sugar sandwiches and Vicodin and more vodka in the morning just to make it to school! My life would not be nearly as fucked up if it wasn’t for you!”

The shock on his face turned to anger. “My fault Potter? My fault? I was just trying to have fun back then Potter. You were the one trying to die! Always one more beer, Boris! One more pill! One more line! And I let you have it, dammit! Even though it meant I would have to drag you home, clean you up, put you to bed, and you never remembering anything next day! I would have given you anything Potter, to take away your pain. I could stop you from killing yourself, but I was never able to make you want to live!”

He had stopped shouting, but his shoulders shook with anger and from the effort of stopping the tears pooling now in his eyes. “I sometimes didn’t want to live back then too, Potter. But once I found you, not so much. Had someone to share it with-the hunger, the beatings, the lonely drunken nights. Night after night waking up with you screaming beside me, and me holding tight in fear but it was ok because we were together. But were we ever, Theo? Really together? Is it only me who remembers how desperate we were for love, and touch, and warmth?”

He stared at me, and I stared back, stunned into silence. In all our time together-though Boris had shouted about many things-he had never shouted at me. Freewheeling, easygoing Boris who always had a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, had never once complained about the bullshit I put him through. But there was no mistaking the anguish on his face, and all at once I knew who’s fault it was for the way my life had turned out. But I couldn’t say it. Instead, the words that spewed from my mouth were barbed and ugly, meant to maim his already broken heart.

“OH right, poor little Boris having to look after Theo. Eating my food, living in my house, wearing my dad’s old clothes! I trusted you and you stole my only real possession! I let you in and you left me for Kotku, left me alone to wake up from the terror of my dreams freezing and alone! Even Popchik was afraid to sleep with me because of how many times I woke up thrashing, with no one to hold me down! Before you Boris I could wall up my pain, I could keep it contained and sometimes forget for a minute that it was there. But after you-after feeling alive and wanted and warm-I could never wall it up again. You made me feel Boris, and then you left me alone with nothing but drugs and alcohol to keep me sane.”

I could barely breath, and I glared at him expecting him to fight back. But a look of resignation had come over his face, and he turned away, speaking so softly I could barely hear him.

“You’re right Potter, you win. You gave everything to me and I repaid you by stealing your most prized possession. I ran to Kotku, but only because I could no longer bear the pain, the constant terror that I would wake up to find you dead in my arms. I was only a kid Potter. I didn’t know how to help you, didn’t know how to help myself. I begged you many times Potter, to find the will to live, to live for me. But in the morning you never remembered.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then “I’m sorry for coming Potter. I thought that this time I would find the right words to raise you from your despair. But I know now, is nothing else I can say.”

Boris picked up Popchik and held him close then whispered softly to him, “take care of him, will you?” and Popchik whined unhappily as Boris set him down. Before I could say another word, he was at the door. “Goodbye, Potter” he said, back turned, shoulders hunched in defeat. Then he walked out and I winced as I heard the click of the door behind him.

Popchik glared accusingly at me, as if to say, ‘It’s your fault he’s gone’. I stared blankly into his puppy dog eyes, dumbfounded, as the weight of the truth crashed painfully into me. He’s gone. He’s gone, I thought, and the realization hit me like a punch in the gut. In terror I found myself back in the museum, earthshattering bang and the drone of alarm bells ringing in my ears. I was back in the doorway in Las Vegas where I had stood helplessly as Xandra told me my father was dead. I was back at Bracegirdles, as the truth of knowing that I could have paid my father’s debts hammered into my head and I was back in my nightmares chasing after them both, always just missing them and always powerless to change anything.

Change anything. Change anything. My addled brain, still in the fog of withdrawal, struggled to make sense of the phrase. But suddenly I knew that I had to get up off my ass if I wanted to Change Anything. The hardwood was icy cold on my feet as I bolted out of bed. Maybe he was still in the apartment. Maybe he was on the doorstep waiting for Gyuri to pull up and drive him away. Maybe if I hurried I could catch him. Stumbling, I flung open the bedroom door and then jumped back in shock as Boris fell into me from the other side. His cheeks were stained with tears, sobs still choking his throat, but he was still here.

“You’re still here!” I exclaimed. And then all at once he reached for me and I gathered him in my arms, and we stood there for several long moments shaking and crying and holding each other up. As we always had, I thought, and the knowledge of that truth sunk deep into my core. In childhood we had been the only thing standing between us and death. As adults he had been willing to die for me, and I had killed for him. And now holding him in my arms-for the first time sober-I knew that to change anything would be to say the only words that mattered-which were, of course, I love you.

I whispered it first against his shoulder. Then I shook him hard by the lapels of his oversized black coat and when his head snapped up sharply, I looked him in the eyes and said it again. “I love you. Boris please, don’t go. I love you. Kocham…” but then he was kissing me, and unlike when we were kids I was not frozen, but was kissing him back forcefully. I could taste the salt of our tears on his lips, feel his warm breath against my cheek, and when he finally pulled away I moaned a little. “Is not the first time you have told me this, Theo. But this time I think you will remember tomorrow.” A bit of playfulness crept back in his voice as he said it, but I had no words to respond, simply nodding against his chest. Gently he led me to the bed, propping me up on the pillows and tucking the comforter around me. He picked up Popchik and walked out the door, and as he put on the little dog’s leash in the hall, I could hear him muttering Polish terms of endearment.

I closed my bloodshot eyes for a moment, opening them to find Boris nestled in beside me, snoring soundly, arm draped carelessly around my waist. This time I didn’t try to pull away but held him tightly, finally feeling the peace of loving him. Knowing how lucky I was, knowing I would live, and knowing that together we had Changed Everything.


End file.
